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Who sang to him night and day
The rhymes of the universe.
And whenever the way seemed long,
Or his heart began to fail,
Or tell a more marvellous tale.
So she keeps him still a child,
And will not let him go,
For the beautiful Pays de Vaud;
Though at times he hears in his dreams
The Ranz des Vaches of old, And the rush of mountain streams
From glaciers clear and cold;
And the mother at home says, “ Hark !
For his voice I listen and yearn; It is growing late and dark,
And my boy does not return !” — Longfellow.
GOOD LIFE-LONG LIFE
It is not growing like a tree
A lily of a day
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corpse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O’er the grave where our hero was buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow !
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him, –
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was done,
When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone
But we left him alone with his glory. — Wolfe.
Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!
Long has it waved on high,
That banner in the sky;
And burst the cannon's roar; —
the clouds no more!
Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,
Where knelt the vanquished foe,
And white were waves below,
Or know the conquered knee;
The eagle of the sea!
Oh, better that her tattered hulk
Should sink beneath the wave;
And there should be her grave;
The lightning and the gale ! — Holmes.
THE WHITE-FOOTED DEER
It was a hundred years ago,
When, by the woodland ways,
Or crop the birchen sprays.
Beneath the hill, whose rocky side
O’erbrowed a grassy mead,
A deer was wont to feed.
She only came when on the cliffs
The evening moonlight lay,
In which she walked by day.
White were her feet, her forehead showed
A spot of silvery white,
In autumn's hazy night.
And here, when sang the whippoorwill,
She cropped the sprouting leaves,
On still October eves.
But when the broad midsummer moon
Rose o’er that grassy lawn,
There grazed a spotted fawn.
The cottage dame forbade her son
To aim the rifle here;
Or fright that friendly deer.
“ This spot has been my pleasant home
Ten peaceful years and more; And ever, when the moonlight shines,
She feeds before our door.
“The red men say that here she walked
A thousand moons ago; They never raise the war-whoop here,
And never twang the bow.
“I love to watch her as she feeds,
And think that all is well
The place in which we dwell.”
The youth obeyed, and sought for game
In forests far away,
The ancient woodland lay.
once, in autumn's golden time Ile ranged the wild in vain, Nor roused the pheasant nor the deer,
And wandered home again.
The crescent moon and crimson eve
Shone with a mingling light; The deer, upon
grassy mead, Was feeding full in sight.
He raised the rifle to his eye,
And from the cliffs around
Gave back its deadly sound.
Away, into the neighboring wood,
The startled creature flew,